


Count My Sins

by glorious_spoon



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Creepy Brock Rumlow, Electrocution, Gags, Gunshot Wounds, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Past Rape/Non-con, Self-Sacrifice, The Author Regrets Everything, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 04:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7208147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is predictable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Count My Sins

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/1634.html?thread=4274274#cmt4274274) on the Hydra Trash Meme:
> 
> Rumlow's happy enough to use the Winter Soldier for whatever purposes he can be useful for, but the Soldier's just a tool to him. Steve Rogers, though? He hates Steve Rogers. So when he gets the two of them in his clutches, tormenting Barnes is just a means to an end, and that end is Captain America offering himself up as a willing victim in his best friend's place.
> 
> On Steve's end, he had no idea about Bucky's trash past, and the possibility of being raped never even crossed his mind when he made the offer... but once it's clear what's about to happen, Rumlow offers him one last chance to back out of it. Just to see him refuse, even in full knowledge of what he's signing on for.

The restraints are old-fashioned, steel chain-link instead of magnetic cuffs; wherever Hydra has them, it’s an old facility, not one that’s been updated recently and definitely not one that’s properly equipped to restrain supersoldiers. If they hadn’t deactivated the metal arm, he could rip them out of the wall one-handed. Steve could do it himself, if he wasn’t sagging unconscious against the wall opposite Bucky, both hands cuffed high over his head. His head is hanging and there’s blood on his chin; the split lip has already healed.

He’s still breathing. He’ll wake up any minute, and then they can get the hell out of here. This facility isn’t equipped to secure even one of them, let alone two, and that means it’s pretty damn unlikely that they have any reconditioning equipment on-site. He’s fine. Steve is fine. They’re both going to be fine.

He flexes his left shoulder against the dead weight of the nonfunctional arm and starts checking the strength of the chains again, link by link. His heart isn’t pounding; his fingers aren’t clumsy with fear. Steve is breathing. Steve is alive. They’re both going to get out of here.

There are footsteps in the hallway outside, and his head jerks up as the door swings open.

For an insane moment, he doesn’t recognize the gruesomely scarred man at the head of the squad. He’s tall, dark-haired and powerfully built, and his face is just so much melted slag—and then he pauses in front of Steve, his ruined mouth twisting into a familiar smile, and Bucky jerks against his restraints so hard that he nearly dislocates his good shoulder. Rumlow. It’s Rumlow.

He thought for sure that sadistic bastard was killed in the Triskelion. No such luck, apparently.

“Stay the hell away from him,” Bucky growls, and Rumlow doesn’t even glance over at him. He pats Steve’s cheek, then slaps it hard enough that Steve’s head jerks to one side. When that produces no effect, he holds out a gloved hand.

“Stun baton.”

 _“No,”_ Bucky says, louder, but it’s like he’s not even there. One of the masked goons slaps a stun baton into Rumlow’s outstretched hand. He jams it into the soft skin of Steve’s throat and thumbs it on.

Steve wakes with a yell, head slamming back into the stone wall. He stares wildly around the room, and then he sees Rumlow and his eyes widen in recognition.

Rumlow pats his cheek again, this time with the stun baton. “You with me now, Cap?”

“Rumlow,” Steve says through gritted teeth. Then his eyes flick past Rumlow’s shoulder, widening when they land on Bucky. “You son of a—”

“Oh, good, you do recognize me. Wasn’t sure you would, after the number your little stunt did on my face. Speaking of,” he adds, and finally glances back at Bucky. “I see you got yourself a new pet.”

“Leave him the hell out of this.”

“Cap, that is entirely your call.” He lets go of Steve and crosses the room toward Bucky. Even through the scarring on his face, the expression is familiar. It makes something sick and angry drop into the pit of Bucky’s stomach, but he wills the feeling away. Rumlow is a creative bastard, but there’s only so much he can do with what he’s got in the room, and every second he’s not looking at Steve increases their odds of escaping.

He can take it. He’s taken a lot worse.

“Get his shirt off,” Rumlow says, and the nearest guard steps closer, produces a knife. He lifts it, hesitates, and Rumlow snaps, “Do it now.”

The blade hooks under the collar of Bucky’s shirt. He bares his teeth at the guard, who flinches, makes an abortive move to step back, then glances at Rumlow and yanks the knife down, parting fabric and leaving a bloody score down his sternum in its wake. Bucky yanks at the manacle with his good hand again, which does no damn good but does make the guard beat a quick two-step backwards.

Rumlow is still grinning when he steps into Bucky’s space, showing no sign of fear. “Time was, we didn’t even have to chain him up. He’d just lie there and let us do whatever the hell we wanted. Wouldn’t even make a noise.” He glances back at Steve, still standing so close that Bucky can smell the cigarettes on his breath and that godawful aftershave. “What do you think, Cap? Think we can make him scream this time?”

“Don’t you dare touch him,” Steve snarls.

Bucky closes his eyes.

“Wrong answer,” Rumlow says, laughing. He jams the baton into the hypersensitive mass of scar tissue at Bucky’s left armpit and flicks it on.

It’s not the worst pain he’s ever experienced, not by a long shot, but by the time Rumlow lets up he’s still clenching his teeth to keep the scream behind them. He’s not used to this anymore. It’s been too long since he was a Hydra punching bag; he’s gotten soft, too used to being treated like a person. Too used to Steve’s gentle hands and easy smile, the way he talks to Bucky like he matters, like he’s not a mangled shadow of the man who fell off a train seventy years ago. He draws in a ragged breath through his nose and holds it for a three-count, willing his pounding heart to steady.

Rumlow is chuckling softly under his breath. He palms himself with his free hand, and Bucky doesn’t have to look down to know that he’s getting hard. Something about beating on people who can’t fight back always did it for him, which Bucky remembers in full Technicolor detail and a lot more clarity than he’d like.

It’s not something he ever wanted Steve to see. Not something he ever wanted Steve to _know_ about, for that matter. Steve’s not a kid and they survived a war together—they’ve survived so much together—but there’s some shit that nobody needs in their head.

The baton powers up again.

“Stop it,” Steve is saying, and he doesn’t sound afraid at all, just furious. _“Stop.”_

“You don’t give the orders here anymore, Cap.”

This time, Bucky’s almost ready for it. Rumlow is aiming for his groin, but he manages to twist at the last second so that the shock hits him in the meat of his thigh, through the thick canvas pants he’s still wearing. Still hurts like hell; his breath harsh in the back of his throat and the manacle cutting into his wrist.

“If you want to beat on somebody, I’m right here, you chickenshit asshole,” Steve yells, and this time there’s something desperate and cracking in his voice, and no, _no_ , the dumb sonuvabitch couldn’t just keep his mouth shut—

Rumlow lets off, grinning. “All you had to do was ask.”

“Steve,” Bucky says. The stun baton cracks hard across his jaw. Rumlow isn’t even looking at him. He’s staring at Steve, and there’s something dark and avaricious in his face.

“Tell you what,” he says. “Since I’m in a generous mood right now, I’m gonna give you a choice. You can watch your boy-toy here take it like the bitch we both know he is. Or.” He grins horribly. “You can take his place, and we can see how good that supersoldier healing really is. It’s up to you.”

Steve’s chin is up and his eyes are blazing. “I told you, you want to hit somebody, you can hit me. Leave him alone.”

“Steve, don’t—” Bucky starts. Rumlow hits him again, and he tastes blood.

“I was really hoping you’d say that.” He turns to the guards flanking Steve. “Cut him loose.”

“Sir—”

“Cut him loose, and keep a gun on the Asset. He’s not gonna do anything stupid, are you, Cap?”

Doing stupid things is Steve’s stock in trade, but Bucky can feel the hard press of an AR-15 muzzle at his temple, and Steve looks at him for a long moment before letting out a shuddering breath. “I’m not going to fight you, Rumlow. Just don’t hurt him.”

“Believe me, Cap, he ain’t the one I want to hurt.”

“I bet,” mutters Steve under his breath. The guards are quaking visibly as they unlock the cuffs on Steve’s wrists, and after that’s done they leap back so fast that it would be like a slapstick routine in any other circumstances at all. True to his word, Steve doesn’t even try to fight. He sucks in a pained breath as his arms drop, rolls his shoulders—they have to be in agony after supporting his full weight for however long he was unconscious—glances at Bucky again, then lifts his chin and glares as Rumlow approaches him.

Rumlow doesn’t hit him right away. He circles Steve instead, head cocked, still grinning. Touches his shoulder, just briefly, then his cheek, trailing his fingers over the curve of his jaw, pressing on his lower lip like he’s searching for the shape of the teeth beneath it. Steve doesn’t move, but he’s tracking Rumlow with his eyes, and his expression of dawning confusion makes Bucky’s gut clench.

Steve has no fucking clue what he just volunteered himself for.

“Steve,” he says. His voice sounds thick and strangled and he’s straining against the cuffs like that might actually make a difference. Steve doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand. “Please don’t—”

Rumlow jerks his chin at the guards, and one of them slams the butt of his rifle into Bucky’s stomach with punishing force. He folds around it, gasping. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a blur of motion, and when he manages to lift his head again Steve has Rumlow pinned up against the wall with one hand, the other drawing back in a fist.

Rumlow is as fast as a striking snake though, and he still has the stun baton in his hand. The shock hits Steve in the gut, knocking him back, and Rumlow is stepping forward, drawing his sidearm, aiming and firing in one smooth motion, and pain explodes through Bucky’s good shoulder.

“Bucky!”

“Stand down, Cap.” Rumlow sounds winded, but still pretty fucking amused. He’s still holding the gun on Bucky, and so is every other guard in the room. “Unless you wanna see your boyfriend’s insides become his outsides.”

Steve freezes. His face is as white as a sheet.

“I’m okay,” Bucky gasps. It’s true, at least for a certain value of ‘okay’. He knows—

_(specifications, physical endurance, healing capacity, can rattle them off for a new handler if need be)_

—he knows his body. His collar bone is shattered; it hurts like hell and it won’t heal quickly, but it’s not going to kill him. The bullet was a through-and-through, didn’t nick anything vital.

“Relax,” Rumlow adds, holstering his gun. “I know what I’m doing. I’m a good shot, you ought to know that. If I wanted him dead, he’d be dead.”

“You bastard,” Steve breathes.

“Sticks and stones. You gonna play nice?”

Steve’s jaw is clenched, but he nods tightly.

Rumlow grins, slapping the stun baton against his hand. “Good. Get down on your knees.”

Steve falls to his knees in an instant, his eyes still on Bucky.

Bucky flexes his shoulder experimentally, then clenches his teeth on a moan as the movement sends splintery fingers of pain through his entire chest. Yeah, he’s not gonna be using that arm anytime soon. “I'm okay,” he says again, when he can trust his voice to come out even. “Steve, I'm okay. Don't do this.”

“See, he's okay,” Rumlow says. “Focus, Cap.” Steve glares up at him, and he actually laughs. “That's better. Take your shirt off.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“No,” Bucky says.

Rumlow turns and looks him in the eye for the first time, free hand dropping to his sidearm. “You don’t talk. You open your mouth again, I shoot him in the head. Understood?”

Bucky’s mouth snaps shut. He nods.

“Don’t, Bucky,” Steve says quietly. “It’s fine. I got this.”

He grits his teeth, but doesn’t speak. It’s not fine, Steve has not got this, and there’s _nothing he can fucking do about it._

Steve is peeling his long-sleeved shirt off, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside, and Bucky has to look away from all that smooth, unscarred skin laid bare. He knows for a fact that Steve isn’t a virgin, but there’s something clean and untouchable about him all the same. It’s like all the filth in the world never seems to stick to him.

“Pants too,” Rumlow says, his voice hoarse and eager.

Steve drops his hands to his belt, then pauses. When he lifts his head, Bucky can see a sickened comprehension emerging on his face. Steve is innocent, sure, but he’s not stupid.

Rumlow must see it too, because he snorts. “Are you just now getting it? Not too quick on the uptake, are you?”

“You sick son of a bitch. What, punching me isn’t good enough for you?”

“After the shit you put me through? Not even close, Cap.” Rumlow shrugs. “But hey, if you think you’re above all that, I could just have Barnes get on his knees for me. It's nothing he hasn’t done before, trust me.”

Steve sucks in a sharp breath, looking stricken.

“Oh, didn’t he tell you?” Rumlow grins and saunters back over toward Bucky, tangles a hand in his hair and yanks his head up. “What do you say? It’ll be just like the good old days.”

It’s stupid, he knows, but he can’t help it. He lift his chin and spits in Rumlow’s face.

He has one moment of deep satisfaction at seeing the glob of saliva hit Rumlow just above his left eye and slide down into what's left of his eyebrow, and then Rumlow jams the stun baton into the open wound in his right shoulder and turns it on.

It's like being set on fire from the inside, the whole world narrowed down to red and pain, and it goes on and on and _on—_

When it lets up, his breath is sobbing in his chest and his mouth is full of blood; he's almost bitten clean through his lower lip. He can hear the echo of screaming in his ears, but he's pretty sure it wasn't him. He knows better than to scream.

Black spots crowd his vision and he blinks hard to clear it. Rumlow wavers in front of him like a nightmare apparition, his head turned away.

“Something you want to say, Cap?” he asks.

“Leave him alone.” Steve. That's Steve, and his voice is fast and uneven. “I'll do what you want. Whatever you want. Just—leave him alone.”

Bucky spits blood on the floor and opens his mouth. Rumlow glances over at him. “Remember what I said about talking?”

“Bucky,” Steve says. He sounds steadier now, determined. “It’s okay. It’s fine.”

He starts unbuckling his belt.

“Last chance, Cap.” Rumlow is all but bouncing on the balls of his feet; Bucky imagines tearing the rest of his face off and feeding it to him. It’s a good image. “If you can’t take it, I’m sure Barnes can.”

“I told you, Rumlow, leave him the hell alone.”

“I wanna hear you say it. You want me to fuck you?”

Steve’s mouth twists, but when Rumlow starts to shift back toward Bucky, he spits, “Yes.”

 _“No,”_ Bucky snaps.

“Gag him,” Rumlow says to the guards without even glancing at him. “I’m sick to death of listening to his shit. I don’t know how you put up with it,” he adds, as an aside to Steve. “Time was, you could shove a baseball bat up his ass and he wouldn’t make a noise.”

He would know, the sick fuck. Steve’s jaw is tense and furious, his knuckles white on his belt like his fingers are going to pop right through the thin leather.

A guard approaches Bucky with a handful of cloth, and Bucky snaps at him when he reaches for his face. He jerks his hand back. “Uh, sir—”

“What?” Rumlow snaps. He glances over, sees the guard shifting his weight nervously, gag still dangling from his hand. It’s nothing fancy, just a length of cloth with a thick knot in the middle, but Bucky knows from long experience that it’s plenty effective. “Oh for fuck’s sake. Give it to me.”

He worked with the Asset extensively, was in charge of securing him after ops, and even toward the end Bucky wasn't always as docile as his handlers would have liked. That was half the fun of it, he thinks, for guys like Rumlow. A power trip isn't nearly as much fun on somebody who won't try to fight back; that's probably what what makes Steve—mouthy, scrappy, stubborn dumbass that he is—like catnip to those assholes.

 _Steve._ Jesus.

Anyway, he knows how to get the gag in without losing his fingers in the process, more's the pity. When Bucky’s mouth is so stuffed with musty cotton that he feels like he's choking on it, he nods at the guard's stun baton and says, “Zap him if he makes any more trouble. You think you can handle that?”

The guard is young, sweat standing along his hairline, but he snaps off a sharp salute. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Don't fuck up anymore and maybe I'll give you a turn with Rogers when I'm done.” He shoots a nasty grin at Bucky. “Before I put a bullet in his head.”

The kid glances at Steve, wide-eyed, then at the other guards. There are six of them in the room, besides him; two of them have their guns on Steve from what they clearly consider a safe distance; the other four are covering Bucky, which is honestly probably a lot more effective as a deterrent.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” His voice cracks on the last word, whether from eagerness or fear or some lingering sense of shame Bucky neither knows nor cares. He’s killed people younger, and for much less reason than this.

“What do you think, Cap? You up for it?”

“I said I’d do what you wanted,” Steve says flatly. “You can stop asking anytime.”

He unbuttons his jeans, kneels up to shove them past his hips. The two closest guards rock back on their heels when he moves, but Rumlow strolls closer, twirling the baton around his wrist on its leather loop.

“Even if it means getting your ass ploughed by a room full of Hydra grunts?”

Steve kicks his shoes off, then his pants, and eyes the guards with a contempt that Bucky is pretty sure is only half feigned. “If you think you can convince those guys to get anywhere near me, be my guest.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can talk them into it. Me, I don’t need any convincing.” He traces the line of Steve’s cheekbone with the stun baton, slides it over the bridge of his nose, presses it against his lips. “Open your mouth.”

Steve’s nostrils flare; his jaw tightens for a moment, then he opens his mouth. Rumlow slides the stun baton past his lips, pumping it like a phallus, and Bucky swallows hard against the thick, soggy wad of cloth in his mouth, the taste of blood. He knows what it feels like to get shocked on the back of his tongue, the inside of his cheek; he’s hoping like hell that Steve’s not about to find out, but there’s not a goddamn thing he can do to stop it, because Steve is a self-sacrificing _idiot_.

It’s an awful kind of relief when Rumlow pulls back and starts undoing his pants.

“Now, here’s how this is going to go.” He trails the baton, slick with saliva, over Steve’s throat, then thumbs it on. It’s a quick jolt, enough to hurt, but probably not even as much as Steve’s shoulders must still be hurting from the manacles. Bucky still has to look away. “Are you paying attention to me?”

“Yes,” Steve grits out.

“You really gotta work on that attitude, Cap.” Rumlow has his cock out, strokes himself slowly, then lets the baton drop. He fists his hand in Steve’s short hair and hauls him up. Bucky can actually see the ripple go through Steve’s naked body as he forces himself not to resist. It’s familiar in the worst way, the muscle memory of a hundred violations, and Steve shouldn’t have to know this, Steve shouldn’t have to learn this. “Mind the teeth.”

It would be worth a bullet to the head, Bucky thinks, to see Steve bite that smug asshole’s dick off, but of course he doesn’t. He makes a small, broken noise in the back of his throat, but cuts it off almost immediately. Rumlow chuckles hoarsely and lets the baton drop to grab Steve’s head with both hands, fucking brutally into his mouth.

Steve’s fingers are digging into his thighs hard enough that he’s probably going to draw blood, and Bucky only becomes aware that he’s straining against his chains again when something shifts agonizingly in his shoulder.

He makes himself stop, leans back enough to slacken the chain, closes his eyes. Focus. He needs to focus. There’s nothing Steve can do right now—nothing Steve _will_ do right now to get himself out of here. That means it’s on Bucky to save both their asses. He pushes his tongue against the gag, considering.

He heals fast, but even Steve wouldn't heal from a bullet wound fast enough to make a difference now. He might have some limited use of that arm if he can get it loose, and the heavy chain is a weapon all on its own, but if he couldn't pry the bolts out of the wall uninjured, there's no way in hell he'll be able to do it now. The metal arm is his only option.

Steve makes another stifled sound, and Bucky opens his eyes before he can stop himself.

He’s still on his knees. Rumlow has stopped fucking his face; now he’s circling Steve again with his cock out, fondling himself. Steve’s mouth and chin are shiny with spit. He meets Bucky’s eyes, then looks away, something horrible and ashamed in his face for a moment before he squares it all away behind that stubborn mask.

Like Bucky hasn’t been right where he is. Like he’s never gotten down on his knees for some power-tripping asshole, with a lot less reason than Steve has right now.

There’s no telling Steve that, though, even if he wasn’t gagged. Steve has wound up on the losing end of more fights than Bucky can count, but he always fucking fights. This docile submission goes against everything in his nature. Rumlow couldn’t be crueler if he tried.

He’s grinning like he knows that, like this is the best kind of fun for him. “Get on your hands and knees.”

Steve’s hands ball into fists on his thighs, and for a moment Bucky thinks—hopes—that he’s about to swing around and deck the bastard, but after a long pause he does as he’s told. Hands flat on the bare concrete floor and his ass in the air, and when Rumlow strokes down the smooth, muscular slope of his back with the stun baton, Bucky flinches, a full-body cringe.

Steve has to have at least some idea of what's coming, but when Rumlow slides the baton down between his legs and thumbs it on, that doesn't stop him from screaming.

It's short, strangled into silence almost immediately, but it seems to echo in Bucky’s ears until it’s the only sound that exists in the world. Steve drops his head, chest heaving, the muscles in his legs trembling visibly. Rumlow is behind him now, stroking himself faster, purposeful. “Oh, I'm sorry. Did that hurt?”

Silence.

“Answer me, or I'll do it again.”

 _Answer him, you idiot_ , Bucky thinks, but he's not surprised when Steve lifts his head slightly, face stubborn and pale, and says nothing.

Rumlow shocks him again. Steve's whole body jerks, but the only sound that escapes him this time is a low, keening moan.

“You want me to do it again?” When Steve still doesn’t say anything, Rumlow crouches down beside him, puts his ruined mouth right up to Steve’s ear, and says, “You can answer me, or I can shove this baton up your ass and shock you from the inside until you stroke out. And then I’ll go over there and do the same thing to Barnes. Is your fucking pride worth that?”

Steve lets his breath out in a shuddering rush. “Leave him out of this.”

“Oh, you do remember how to talk. That’s good, I was starting to worry.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Steve says, low and ragged.

Rumlow chuckles. “It’d be a shame to wreck that ass before I even get to fuck it, anyway. What do you say, Cap? You still willing to take Hydra dick for the greater good? Or do you want to see if Barnes still has the chops? I’m gonna go out of a limb and say he’s got a whole lot more practice than you do.”

“I don’t care what you do with your dick,” Steve spits. “Leave Bucky out of it.”

“I’m gonna take that as a yes.” Rumlow holsters his baton and slides his glove off, presses his fingers against Steve’s mouth. “Get ‘em good and wet, because that’s all you’re getting.”

Steve jerks his head aside and spits on the floor.

Bucky tenses, expecting another shock, but Rumlow just looks amused. “Suit yourself.”

He maneuvers himself between Steve’s spread legs, bumping against him, hands skimming greedily over his skin. Steve isn’t moving, Steve isn’t fighting, and Bucky _cannot fucking watch this_ ; his gaze skitters away, across the bare room, the door slightly ajar, the guards who are standing there, watching, just fucking watching. They look a lot more relaxed now, all of them except for the young one closest to Bucky. He’s still standing at attention, and his hand is—

Huh.

— his hand is resting on the hilt of his stun baton. His eyes keep flicking toward Bucky, fingers twitchy on the acrylic grip like he’s just waiting for an excuse to use it.

The Asset knew enough to do basic field maintenance on his arm. Bucky remembers, vaguely, that it was an ongoing topic of disagreement among his handlers—how much he needed to know, how much it was safe to teach him. In this particular instance, practicality won out. They couldn't always count on easy access to maintenance facilities, and the Asset had to be functional. There were a number of ways to disable the arm, some of which were beyond the Asset’s technical skill to repair—but the simplest, short of just shooting the fucking thing, was to disrupt the neural implants. A sufficiently powerful jolt of electricity could sometimes reactivate the connection.

Like, say, the discharge from a stun baton.

The problem is, he can't talk, and the guy is prudently standing too far away to kick at. That, and he's starting to get lightheaded from blood-loss. That puts a time constraint on this, even above and beyond the fact that these guys are probably planning to put a bullet in him and Steve both once they’re done having their fun. Lousy restraints mean no reconditioning equipment, and there’s no way in hell they’d try to take both him and Steve alive without being able to wipe them.

No, this is just their idea of a good time. Or Rumlow’s anyway. Orders were probably to eliminate them both on sight, if anybody is actually around to give these assholes orders these days.

Rumlow lets out a low, obscene grunt that almost drowns out Steve’s short, sharp intake of breath as he pushes into his ass. “Fuck, you feel good,” he pants. “Tight as a virgin. Tell the truth, Cap, is this your first time?”

Bucky can actually see Steve considering his response: say nothing and look like he’s beaten, lie and look like he’s vulnerable, or tell the truth: it’s fucking surreal, because that expression hasn’t changed since he was a skinny teenager getting his ass kicked in alleys instead of—

“No,” he spits, and Bucky has to look away.

“Captain Wholesome likes to take it like a bitch.” Rumlow grunts again, speeding up his pace. Bucky can hear the slap of skin on skin, the metallic jingle of zippers and buckles, and over all that a furious staticky buzz that seems to fill up all the empty spaces in his skull. He’ll kill him, he’ll kill every last one of these bastards, and he’ll do it with a smile on his face.

Rumlow’s hand drops down; Bucky can't quite see what he's doing from this angle, but he can see the tight misery of Steve’s expression, his reddening face, and it isn’t hard to guess. “Oh, would you look at that.” Rumlow laughs hoarsely, sounding genuinely, horribly delighted. “You love this. Never woulda guessed from that sorry-ass blowjob.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t bite it off.”

“Lucky ain’t the word I’d use.” Rumlow’s free hand is gripping Steve’s thigh, as if that would be enough to keep him still if he decided to fight. His other hand is still out of sight, still working Steve’s dick if the flex of his shoulders is anything to go by. Steve flinches, a full-body shudder, then forces himself to stillness, face set despite the flushing, bracing himself against the thrusts, like there’s any fucking way to keep a scrap of dignity here. “You want to work on your technique, though, I’m sure my boys here would appreciate it. What do you say?”

This last is directed at the guards. For a second, Bucky thinks that no way, _no way in hell_ are they going to be stupid enough—

But then the larger of the two guards covering Steve laughs suddenly, says, “What the hell, like I’m ever gonna get a chance like this again.”

He holsters his gun and starts undoing his pants.

When Bucky jerks against his chain this time, it’s savage animal instinct, barely intentional. He should have known. He should have fucking known. Nothing like gang-rape to make even the most dangerous guy look a little less threatening.

“Don’t—don’t move,” the nearest guard stammers. “I’ll shock you if you move again.”

He tears his eyes away from the horrorshow playing out in front of them to meet the young guard’s eyes. The kid is wide-eyed and anxious; unlike the rest of the guards, he’s barely paying attention to Rumlow and Steve, not even to gawk. Bucky stares at him for a long moment and then, very deliberately, yanks at his restraints with all his strength.

It _hurts._ He chooses not to think about the damage he’s doing to his injured shoulder; he only needs one functional arm and the weaker one is an acceptable forfeit. The pain is worse. It’s been too long since he’s been the Winter Soldier, too long since pain was nothing more than input, information that was only of concern to his handlers if it affected his level of functioning. He’s been a person for too long now, and being a person hurts in a way that being the Soldier never did.

There’s a hot burst of agony and then a spreading numbness and it takes him a moment to sort out the sensory jumble to realize that he’s been shocked. It’s on the left side, which he was gambling on, but not quite in the right place—the sensitive scar tissue around his metal joint, not on the joint itself. The young guard is standing over him, wide-eyed, still holding the stun baton.

As if from a great distance, he hears Steve snarl, “Leave him _alone_ ,” and Rumlow’s response is lost in the pounding in his ears, all the noises around him starting to bleed together. He kicks out at the guard on instinct, feels his foot connect—idiot must have moved closer to shock him.

This time when it comes he doesn’t let himself dodge. He twists toward it, and the stun baton comes down full-force on the ball of his metal shoulder.

A silvery jolt of pain shivers through his left side, a faint mechanical whirr as the arm comes back online, and then he yanks the chain out of the wall and punches through the guard’s skull in a single smooth motion.

It’s the work of a moment to tear the other chain loose as well, and then he’s free.

He kills the second guard before the man even has a chance to turn, cracking his skull with the heavy chain still dangling from his right wrist and snatching away his rifle as he falls. His right arm is numb and clumsy, practically useless except as a club, but he’s perfectly capable of shooting the lightweight AR-15 one-handed. He drops two more bodies in quick succession before he hears a high-pitched howl from the center of the room, grins savagely around the gag. Looks like Steve finally decided to join the party.

The big guard is rolling on his back, keening, his pants open and his crotch a bloody mess. Bucky puts three rounds in his face, spins on his heel at a flicker of motion to his left and shoots the last guard before he can get his gun up.

“Nice,” comes Rumlow’s voice, and Bucky turns, slowly, to face him. He’s on his feet, has his forearm across Steve’s neck and a gun jammed into his throat, using the breadth of his body to block Bucky’s shot. “Very nice.”

Steve’s eyes are open, and he glances to one side without moving his head. Bucky jerks his chin in negation. One of Rumlow’s eyes and half of his forehead is visible behind Steve’s head; at close range, with his off hand and the dizziness starting to tilt his vision, it’s about eighty-five percent odds that Bucky could drop him clean. Fifteen percent that he’d hit Steve, and those odds are not acceptable. Not to him.

“I was wondering if you’d been letting your skills get rusty. The bosses are gonna be pleased that I was wrong.” He sounds pleased himself. Not just pleased; _smug._ Like he hasn’t even noticed that he’s standing in a room full of corpses, or maybe he just likes it like that. Maybe that’s a rush, being the last man standing. Ego makes people do stupid things; a smarter man would have run by now. “You can take that out of your mouth now, by the way.”

Bucky just stares at him flatly. He’d have to set the gun down to get the gag out: not likely.

“And Cap—” He rubs his face against the back of Steve’s neck. It’s possessive, perversely fond. Steve barely seems to notice; he’s watching Bucky, wide-eyed, and Bucky shifts his grip on the rifle. “I just don’t know what to do with you.”

“I got a few ideas,” Steve says harshly, “but I don’t think you’ll like them much.”

His eyes flick back up toward Bucky, and then they’re both moving, fast and brutal and as perfectly choreographed as a dance. Steve twists in Rumlow’s grip, his right hand coming up to yank the gun away. It goes off, still close enough to Steve’s face that his hair moves in the breeze of it, but Steve has a grip on the barrel now, jerking it to one side hard enough to snap the bones in Rumlow’s wrist like dry firewood.

He drops the gun with a scream, stumbles forward, and Bucky shoots him in the throat before he can even think to dodge.

He falls to his knees, then crumples to the floor. Bucky steps forward. His ears are ringing, and everything seems cold and distant.

Rumlow is twisting, gargling in agony, still alive. Bucky shoots him again, in the gut this time. Then again, in the crotch. Three more rounds in the chest, then two in the face, and he's dead now, he's not moving, but Bucky keeps shooting until he runs out of bullets.

A warm hand comes down on his shoulder, and he strikes at it purely on instinct. Steve has quick reflexes, though, and he leans out of Bucky’s reach before the blow can land.

“Hey,” he says softly. “He's dead.”

Bucky looks uncomprehendingly at the corpse sprawled on the floor for a long moment, then

(carefully, gently _respect your weapon, soldier_ )

he sets the rifle down and reaches for the knotted cloth at the back of his head. It's bruisingly tight, several hanks of hair tangled in the knot, and his metal fingers seem fumbling and clumsy, like maybe the punishment his arm has taken in the past few hours has damaged the calibration. He lets out a hard breath through his nose, unreasonably frustrated and seconds away from just tearing the whole thing apart and to hell with ripping his hair out by the roots, and Steve steps closer, reaches for him, tentative.

“Let me—?”

Bucky stares at him for several long seconds, and for several long seconds Steve just stares back at him, waiting. There's fresh blood on his face, and Bucky is pretty sure it's not his.

After what seems like an age, he nods jerkily.

“Okay,” Steve says quietly, and moves behind him to reach for the gag. His fingers make quick work of the knot. “We should get out of here before anyone comes looking for us, and you need medical attention.”

The gag comes loose, and Bucky spits the sodden lump of fabric out of his mouth, cracks his jaw, and says, “You okay?”

There's a long silence, then a shaky breath, and then Steve says, in a voice that doesn't sound at all okay, “I'm fine.”

Bucky turns. Steve is standing there with his hands empty, naked and covered in other people's blood, with a look on his face like he's trying hard not to cry. It's an expression that Bucky is more familiar with than he’d like.

“Jesus, Stevie,” he says, and hauls him into a tight one-armed hug. “Come here.”

Steve goes tense at the contact, and Bucky starts to pull back, berating himself, because of all people, _of all people,_ he should know better—and then Steve sags against him, arms going tightly around his chest, face pressed against Bucky’s neck.

“Sorry,” he says hoarsely.

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, even though it isn’t, because what the hell else is there to say?

“I worked with him,” Steve says. He sounds lost, a little bit, and Bucky has to close his eyes. Steve has faced a lot of bad shit in his life, but this particular petty brand of cruelty is alien to him. He can take a beating and keep laughing, keep taunting, but something like this—it’s not the same. “I trusted him.”

“I know.”

Steve rubs his face against Bucky’s shoulder, like he thinks he's being subtle or something, and looks up. His eyes are still wet; Bucky doesn’t mention it. “And he—what he said about you, was that true?”

He grimaces. There's a part of him that still wants to deny it, like there's any fucking point in that now. “Yeah,” he says instead, quiet, kneading his fingers into the tense muscles at the back of Steve's neck. “Yeah, it was true.”

“I'm sorry.” Steve's breath hitches again.

Bucky sighs and gives in to the impulse to press his cheek to Steve's sweat-drenched hair. “You and me both, pal.”

They stand like that for several long minutes, clinging together in the dank, bloody stillness in the room. Dark spots are beginning to crowd Bucky’s vision, and he’s not exactly feeling steady on his feet now, his arm nearly numb, hanging like a lump of lead off of his shoulder, but he’s not letting go until Steve does. Or until he collapses, whichever comes first.

Like he heard the thought, Steve pulls away, swipes a hand over his face. “We should get you to a hospital.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, lifting his left shoulder slightly. “I don’t really need another one of these.”

Steve snorts, then immediately slaps a hand over his mouth. “That’s not funny, Bucky.”

“It was a little funny, c’mon.”

“No,” Steve says, trying for stern. There’s the shiver of a laugh in his voice, though, hysteria leaking out around the edges, which is just fine as long as he can keep a lid on it. Whatever keeps him on his feet long enough to get them both out of here, because Bucky’s not gonna be much help now. Walking is about all he can manage. He hopes he can manage. “It was not even a little bit funny.”

“No sense of humor.” He sways, then steadies himself. Steve is pulling his pants back on, and he pauses, slides under Bucky’s good shoulder before finishing with his buckle. Bucky leans against him gratefully. “You should take a gun.”

Steve hesitates for a moment, then scoops up Rumlow’s handgun from where it’s laying near a spreading pool of blood. He checks the magazine—full, other than the round that went through Bucky’s shoulder—and slaps it back into place. Wipes his bloody face on his shoulder, although it doesn’t do much more than smear the mess around. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my shield.”

“Sorry.”

“Okay.” Steve takes a deep breath, then lets it out. “Okay. Let’s get out of here.”

“Best idea you’ve had all day,” Bucky says. It's still quiet outside, even after all the noise they were making; there's still a chance they can get away clean. He loops his good arm around Steve’s waist and lets himself be guided out of the room into the clean cool darkness of the hallway.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://glorious-spoon.tumblr.com/)!


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